Have You Forgotten Your Angel?
by EriksAngelOfMusic13
Summary: (Based on filmstage) Christine is slowly wasting away, but know one knows why. When a chance to return to Paris comes up she takes it gladly, but can she face what she left behind there...and what she'll return to? Awful summary but please R&R!
1. In Sleep He Sang To Me

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Phantom of the Opera, be it the book, stage production or film, unfortunately! Only the characters featured in this story that are not from the original work belong to me.

Note: This is my first phan fiction . . . so please R&R – all comments are welcome! This is based on the stage production and the film (but mostly the film).

Have You Forgotten Your Angel?

1 . In Sleep He Sang To Me…

_Christine stood in the centre of the room, staring dazedly at the dozens of her own reflection staring back at her as they spun wildly in all directions. She ran to touch one, but it vanished as soon as she reached out her hand. Where was she? She continued to search desperately for any clue of an escape or a hint of something familiar . . . but all she could see was herself in the mirrors._

"_Raoul! Raoul, where are you?" She cried, pleading to her husband._

_But all she heard was her voice echoed over and over again off the spinning glass. She fell to the ground in despair, digging the heel of her hands into her eyes, trying to block out the mocking world around her._

"_Christine . . . Christine . . ."_

_Her head snapped up in relief . . . Raoul was with her . . . she was safe . . . but it wasn't Raoul . . . she couldn't see who it was at first._

"_Angel of Music . . . do not shun me . . . "_

_She knelt forward and a muffled sob caught in her throat._

_Out of the shadows emerged the Red Death . . ._

The night was silent when Christine sat up in bed, her hair damp against her forehead as her heart beat viciously in her breast. She lay back down, feeling the hot pillow beneath her head and noting the empty bed beside her. She couldn't have been asleep for long if Raoul had not yet come to bed – she must have started dreaming as soon as she'd closed her eyes.

She had dreamt of the Phantom often since she and Raoul had left Paris for London, but the dreams had never been as vivid as the one from which she had just woken up from. Why couldn't she just forget him? She had remembered the way he looked as if she had only seen him the day before - the glint in his eye, the texture of the deep red fabric, the way he stood, the skeletal mask – they had all been so real. But what had caused her skin to chill and her heart to race above all was the voice she had heard in her dream. She had never heard it so true to the real sound…it had caused her heart to leap up into her throat in a mixture of fear . . . and longing. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but as much as she wanted to continue her life as the Viscountess de Chagny in peace . . . her heart also longed for the thrill of music filling her soul once again. It was a feeling that she had only felt twice in her life and she knew that she would never feel it again for she would never see that man again. She didn't know how to react to this thought. She didn't know what she wanted.

She slowly swung her legs gently out of the bed, so her bare feet felt the warmth of the rug beneath them. Not even thinking of putting on her robe, she stepped out into the hallway. Her movement made no sound as she entered the small room next to hers and stood just inside the doorway.

In the corner of the room, surrounded by shadows, stood a small crib covered in an assortment of ribbons and bows. Her young daughter had not been in the world three months but already she had learnt to sleep practically the whole night through without a sound. Raoul had worried about it at first, but Christine knew that there was nothing wrong. The child would grow up strong and healthy for she had drained her mother of almost every drop of energy she had had during the pregnancy and birth. It had taken her and her husband over three years to have a child and the experience had almost killed her.

Christine turned and stepped back onto the dimly lit landing to be greeted by her reflection in a mirror. She studied herself carefully, noting the dullness of her eyes and the dark circles beneath them. Even her hair had lost its life – the once bright and gleaming curls now simply hung about her head, a mere mockery of the colour they had once been. Oh, how she loved her newborn child, but the girl had had no mercy on her mother when she had come into being. The babe had torn her mother apart and would have taken the dying woman's heart along with her had not Christine held onto life with every fibre she possessed. Christine wondered if she would ever live as she had used to or whether she would always have the shadow and weakness in her heart.

She looked for any sign of the young woman she had once been in her reflection but all she found staring back was a near empty shell, plagued by nightmares and torments that she had thought that she had left behind in the Opera House. Where was Christine Daae? She was but a memory of a child who had long since vanished. Christine would never be her again.

"Christine?"

She turned quickly to the bearer of the voice, the shock resounding through her body, making her stumble and fall against the table beneath the mirror. Raoul immediately was at her side, his arms beneath her legs, lifting her into his arms.

"Christine, it's past midnight . . . what are you doing up? You know you need your rest if you're going to get well," he whispered to her gently, his youthful face etched with concern.

She looked up into his face and for a brief moment found herself surprised that she was not looking into different eyes . . . eyes that burned . . . one partially concealed by a white mask…

"I-I . . . I didn't realise it was so late . . . I woke up and you weren't here . . . I went to see you . . . I-"

"Hush, it's alright, I'm here now," he replied, his voice soothing to her troubled thoughts. "I fell asleep in my chair in my study . . . I'd been reading too late. I'm sorry if I scared you."

Christine let herself be gently lowered into her bed and the blankets pulled up over her cold body. She didn't manage to stay awake while Raoul washed and undressed, instead to quickly drifted off into what she thankfully noted in the morning was a deep, dreamless sleep.

Christine slept late the next morning and when she awoke, to find the sun shining palely through the window, she knew that she didn't have the strength to get up. She would have to spend another day in bed, leaving the world to continue without her. She had missed so much over the last few months – Raoul had to attend functions and parties alone, her new friends went to the theatre or to dinner without her . . . but what pained her most of all was the fact that she was not capable to care for or nurse her own child. She felt as if she barely knew her.

She lay in bed for what seemed like hours, listening to the noises of the house around her, before anyone looked in on her.

Lucy, the young maid, stepped in and smiled brightly at the woman in the bed, but Christine registered the brief look of concern flicker across her face. She must have been looking as bad as she felt.

"Good morning, _madame_." She smiled again, and Christine smiled back, always amused at the young London girl's attempt at a French accent.

"Is it still morning?" Christine asked, turning to see the sun high in the sky out of her window.

"Indeed it is, ma'am, but not for much longer I might add," she replied, tending to the flowers by Christine's bedside. She cast her gaze briefly in her mistress's direction. "Do you wish for me to help you out of bed, ma'am?"

Christine sighed and sat up slightly, but then immediately lay back down, thinking better of it. "Not this morning, Lucy, thank you."

Lucy, biting her lower lip slightly, stared at Christine and felt the deepest sympathy for the frail, shadow of a woman who lay before her. She was disturbed by how old such a young woman could seem sometimes . . . Lucy, herself, was barely three years younger than Christine but she didn't feel it. Of course, Christine didn't always seem old, sometimes if she was laughing or with her child, she looked and acted like the twenty year old that she was. But those moments had become gradually much fewer since she had left Paris . . . Christine seemed to be simply . . . _fading_ away.

"As you wish, ma'am," Lucy sighed, turning to leave.

"Wait-" Christine spoke, stopping Lucy from leaving, " can you ask my husband to come up please?"

"Of course, ma'am – I'll tell him immediately," the girl replied, shutting the door as she left.

Christine lay back down and closed her eyes. The images from her dream the night before filled her mind, and she heard his voice whispering in her ear . . .

"_Anywhere you go, let me go too . . . Christine, that's all I ask of-"_

"Christine?"

Christine opened her eyes and stared around wildly, expecting to see the dark figure himself beside her, gently singing in her ear.

Raoul sat down on the edge of the bed and gently pushed Christine's hair off her face. He looked tired and worried, as if something was on his mind. She smiled up at him and took his hand.

"How are you feeling this morning?" He asked, obviously concerned by her pale face and tired eyes.

She smiled again and sat up slightly, despite the exhaustion it caused her.

"I feel better, thank you," she lied. "How is Matilde this morning?"

"She's fine. Lucy is just about to take her out for a short walk through the park – she was growing a bit restless cooped up inside all morning. I'll get Lucy to bring her up to you as soon as they return."

Christine nodded slightly and turned her head towards the window. She wished she could take her child out, but she rarely went out any more. She could hear the noise of London from the streets below her window - the noise of a city full of life. Yet she still found it an entirely alien place. She did not feel at home there, it was as if she had left a part of herself behind in Paris, yet she hadn't returned to France at all in the three years since she had fled from it.

It was not that she did not enjoy living in London – it was an incredible, bustling city and she certainly found their little townhouse near Primrose Hill comfortable enough to live in…but there was an entirely different atmosphere in the streets of London compared to the Parisian streets that she had loved so dearly. She could not imagine spending the rest of her life in London . . . but she saw no other path to follow.

"Christine?" Raoul whispered softly, stroking her cheek and lightly squeezing her small hand that lay in his own. Christine heard the sorrow and regret in his voice as soon as he said her name.

"What is it?" She replied, imaging the worst.

Raoul stood up slowly, so that he was facing away from his wife. His shoulders rose in a deep sigh and he began to speak softly.

"I have received many letters from my mother recently and I have hidden what they had all said from you . . . but know you must know."

He turned and walked around the bed to stand by the window. She had fully sat up now and was clinging to the bed sheets as she waited for her husband to continue.

"I knew that the news would do you no good until you had fully recovered, but now . . . " He sighed once more and began to distractedly play with the net curtain beside the window.

"My father is dying, Christine. He has been for a long time now and mother wishes me to go to him immediately." Christine could see that he was distressed but she did not know what to say or do in reaction to his words. "If he is to die, I need to be there to deal with his affairs and see to the estate outside Paris. I cannot leave it all to my mother . . . I don't think she would be able to cope alone, she-"

"Of course we shall go to him, Raoul! He has not yet seen Tillie and he would certainly wish to, so we could all take to boat and-" Raoul's look of confusion stopped Christine's words.

"You couldn't possibly go, Christine! You are not even fit to get out of bed, yet alone travel to Paris! No . . . I shall go alone, there is no other way about it."

Christine let out a sigh of frustration and despair. He couldn't possibly go without her . . . the thought of him back in Paris and her alone in London filled her with such a longing that it made her heart ache. And God only knew how long he'd be away in Paris . . . but she understood his point, she knew that she could not take such a journey.

"I hate this . . . you will be gone for so long and I can't go with you," she whispered, trying not to let her voice break into a sob.

He was immediately by her side, rocking her gently in his arms, her head against his chest.

"Hush," he whispered against her hair, "I shall have to travel out there a lot over the next few months but I will return here all the time, I doubt I'll be gone longer than a fortnight on this trip! And I'll write everyday and send you news of our friends in Paris"

She leant back from his embrace and looked into his eyes. She knew that he loved her and that she loved him, but she was still filled with a deep confusion whenever she looked into his eyes.

"Christine, it pains me beyond belief to think of leaving you here, but there is nothing I can do . . . all I can say is that you won't be alone for long."

She smiled weakly as he stood and walked towards the open door. He turned to her and smiled back before he left but Christine was already faced away from him.

If only he knew that she'd been utterly alone for three years.

Please R&R and I'll update soon! : )


	2. Those Eyes That Burn

Disclaimer : I own nothing of the original storyline/music/characters . . . only the made up characters are mine :)

Notes : Thankyou for the reviews! I'll try to update again soon :)

* * *

2. Those eyes that burn . . .

"_In sleep he sang to me . . . in dreams he came . . ._

_. . . that voice which calls to me . . . and speak my name . . . "_

* * *

_Christine stood in the middle of the stage with hundreds of eyes watching her every move. But these were not the admiring eyes that she had once been used to seeing in the audience before her . . . these eyes were cold and unfeeling. They were judging her._

_She was surrounded by impenetrable darkness and flames that seemed to gently lick at her bare skin and, through them, all she could see was those hard, judging eyes in their thousands it seemed. _

_"Past the point of no return . . . the final threshold – what warm unspoken secrets will we learn . . . beyond the point of no return . . . "_

_Christine turned to the voice only to see a dark figure emerging from the flames, a passion so deep radiating from them that Christine could feel it, hot, against her skin. She could feel a smile, unwillingly, cross her face as she recognised the figure – the deep burgundy colour he wore and the black mask that covered both of his eyes instead of one - and to her own horror she could not stop herself from answering him, her own voice as rich with passion and longing as his._

_"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry . . . to that moment where speech disa-"_

_"For pity's sake, Christine, say no!"_

_Christine swung round, irritated at being interrupted, to see Raoul fighting desperately towards her through the flames. Christine watched in horror, as the flames seemed to burn him, while everyone else was untouched by them. _

_"I fought so hard to free you . . . " She began to hurry towards his pleading voice . . . towards her husband that needed her . . . _

_"You've passed the point of no return . . . "_

_Christine stopped once more and turned slowly towards the figure who was dressed as Don Juan . . . her Angel . . . she couldn't leave him either . . . but Raoul needed her . . . she had to choose._

_She turned wildly to face the audience, longing for some guidance, a friendly one among the pitiless faces. But they just stared as she felt the flames move closer to her and grow more furious. She turned to look for the Phantom or Raoul but all she could see were the flames dancing around her and the audience before her . . . but they weren't emotionless anymore . . . they were _laughing

_The cruel, merciless laughter echoed all around her and she felt her pale skin start to burn. She tried to run but all around her were flames and cruel, mocking faces. She tried to lunge at them and tear at their jeering faces but all she could feel beneath her fingers was the excruciating pain of the flames. They were burning before her very eyes._

_As she felt the darkness and flames close in around her she whispered a pitiful, pleading cry:_

_"Why do you curse mercy?"_

* * *

Christine stood silently by the window. The sun just risen and a pale, cold light lit the room, hurting Christine's weak eyes. The streets below were practically empty, apart from the lonesome road sweeper going about his business, and an unsettling silence seemed to settle over the entire of the city.

Christine had barely slept at all during the night – her sleep was to riddled with dreams for her to bear laying her head upon the pillow. And the dreams had only got worse since Raoul had left for Paris. When she had fallen asleep the previous evening, images of flames and darkness had filled her slumbering mind. It had been so vivid that she had woken, tearing wildly at the bed curtains as if they suffocated her. She had sobbed for hours, never daring to go back to sleep in case they made her choose again . . . those faces that had danced before her in the flames, laughing at her, jeering at her . . . those merciless faces.

Christine felt that familiar warmth fill her tired eyes as tears slowly emerged in them. She couldn't live like this – to scared to go to sleep in case she face his face again – it was too much. Why wouldn't he just leave her _alone_? She had made that decision once, long ago, and he was still haunting her because of it . . . but it was done and it could not be undone . . . she had to _forget_. She knew that was what she had to do and she would do all she could to make sure that it was done.

Despite her immense exhaustion, Christine slowly left the room and headed towards the top of the stairs. If she spent all her time in bed, with nothing else to think about, then how _could_ she forget? She had to be up and about, getting on with her life. Raoul had already been gone a fortnight and his letters made it clear that he would not be returning for at least another two weeks . . . his father was still alive, but barely. He had to stay with his mother. Christine knew what he was going through so she did not mind that was to be gone much longer than he had said – she knew what it was like to lose a father.

She slowly made her way down the stairs into the hall, careful not to stumble, and went straight into the kitchen to show Lucy and the cook, Martha, that she was up. Christine smiled – a rare occurrence – when she saw Martha dozing in her chair by the fire and quietly turned to leave so as not to wake the sleeping woman. She was going to find Lucy, who was probably in one of the parlours, but something she saw out of the corner of her eye made her stop in her tracks. She felt her breath quicken as she turned towards it . . . no, she thought desperately . . . this is _not_ happening. But it was – she saw it before her as clear as she saw the loaf of bread beside it.

A rose.

She took a clumsy step backward, her hand raised to her mouth in horror.

"No . . ."

The flower was deep red in colour and around the stem was a sleek black ribbon. She merely stared at it, a desperate sob rising in her throat.

"_No_ . . . not again . . ." she pleaded to herself, louder this time.

Martha stirred in her chair and slowly opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw her mistress up, instead of in bed, but soon deep concern etched her face as she saw what a state the young woman was in.

"Ma'am?" She quickly rose to her feet and took Christine's hand firmly, trying to get a response, but Christine was simply staring at the rose with an expression that Martha could only describe as fear and . . . _longing_.

"Ma'am? _Madame!_ _Christine_, what is it? Lucy! _Lucy_, get in here now!" Her hands were now firmly placed upon Christine's shoulders. Lucy quickly came in from wherever she had last been and stared in confusion at the scene in the kitchen

Christine suddenly became aware of their presence, as if waking from some kind of trance. She turned her frightened eyes up to Martha's warm ones and began to choke out questions.

"That rose . . . where . . . who . . . the _rose_ . . . that _red_ rose. . . God, _why_?" she sobbed wildly, not knowing what to do.

Martha and Lucy looked at each other in utter confusion. Lucy slowly stepped towards the rose and picked it up. Christine turned away from it and hid her face in her hands.

"I don't want to see it! Don't make me see it!" Martha quickly placed her sturdy arms around the hysterical girl.

"Hush ma'am . . . it's just a rose that young Lucy got this morning," she whispered, and added with a lighter tone, "it seems she's got an admirer."

Christine continued to sob in Martha's arms. She could hear Lucy take a step towards them.

"It's true, ma'am . . . Tom – the milk boy – left it for me when he left the milk . . . I didn't think you'd mind, ma'am, otherwise I would never have . . . " Lucy was whimpering, terrified of losing her position in the household, "only, he must have spent a lot of money on it for me . . . and it's such a pretty pink colour . . . "

_Pink? _Christine registered the word in her head with disbelief and slowly untangled herself from Martha's embrace and turned to face the maid. She hadn't been lying . . . the rose was light pink . . . and the ribbon was _white. _

"But . . . it was red . . . _red . . . _and the ribbon wasn't white – it was _black_ . . . like the ones _he _used to leave for me . . .he . . . " She broke off into heavy sobs and fell heavily into a chair by the table.

She was losing her mind. The rose had been red when she had walked into the room, but now it was pink. And it wasn't from who she had thought it was from . . . it was from the milk boy.

She placed her head in her hands and steadied her weeping. She had to control herself otherwise Lucy and Martha would have her committed. She laughed to herself shortly – perhaps that would be best for everyone, no one would have to worry about me and I'd be left all alone . . . to nothing but my endless dreams.

_No, _she screamed mentally at herself. She had told herself earlier that she couldn't live like this but now she knew that she could _never_ forget, no matter how hard she tried. The only way for her to continue living in peace was to face her dreams . . . to face what was _in_ her dreams. She would die if she continued like this and he would always be there . . . _singing songs in her head_ . . .

She quickly raised her head and stared seriously at the two women by her side. They looked terrified for their mistress and she could tell that they wished that Raoul were there to help them. But Raoul wasn't there . . . he was in Paris.

"Lucy, Martha . . . I need your help . . . I need you both to do something for me."

"Of course, ma'am, say the word and we'll do it," Lucy replied immediately. Christine could see that she had been crying too. She smiled and slowly stood up to face them.

"As you have known for a while now, I am not well and I don't see myself getting better any time soon." Neither said anything to this. "Whether I die or recover is not up to me, but I know that there is something I can do to end all this . . . "

Martha looked concerned and confused. What on earth could she want of them?

"I need for you to tell my husband, when he returns, that I am much better."

She did not listen to their cries of protest but instead continued firmly. "I am asking you to do this as friends. I will do my very best to appear healthy to him and you must make sure he believes that I am recovered from my illness following Matilde's birth. It's the-"

"But _why_, ma'am? What good will it do?" Martha interrupted, shaking her head.

Christine sighed.

"I need to go to Paris. There's someone I must see."

* * *

_He sat in front of the music box, tears streaming down his face as he watched the symbols banging together with childlike wonder._

_"Masquerade . . . paper faces on parade . . . Masquerade . . . hid your face, so the world will never find you . . . "_

_He knew that she was next to him. Was she going to stay with him? Had she decided not to leave with the boy? He turned to look at her, a mixture of love and doubtful hope across his half-deformed, half-beautiful face._

_"Christine . . . I love you . . . "_

_She smiled, and took a step towards him, her hand outstretched. He noted, with such joy that he thought his heart would burst, that she was still wearing the ring that he had given her._

_"Erik, I love you too."_

_Tears continued to drench his face as he stood. He couldn't believe she had just said those words . . . those words that he had longed to hear . . . she had finally said them._

_He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment . . . but when he opened them, preparing to pull her into his embrace . . . she was gone. _

Erik woke up and glanced frantically around him . . . he was in the same place that the dream had taken place but he knew that it had not been real. He picked up the empty spirits bottle beside him and hurled it at the rock wall, screaming with rage as he did so.

He stood and furiously went out to stand by the lake. He stared at the destruction around him. Part of his home had been damaged by the fire three years ago but most of it had been spared. Everything else had been destroyed by his own hand, when he had returned after he was sure that the opera house was deserted. Drapes hung in tatters, where he had ripped them apart . . . his organ stood smashed and lonely . . . and all the pictures of Christine that he had ever painted lay shredded, her perfect face now deformed like his. Those had been the first thing that he had destroyed . . . he couldn't bare to look at them.

_But you wouldn't just get rid of them, would you? _

He scolded himself for thinking of her and tried to push the dream out of his mind. He had dreamed of her often since she had left him – _abandoned you – _but the one he had just woke from was particularly vivid. He had been able to smell her sweet scent and almost feel her breath against his skin . . . if she had not disappeared he would have been able to reach out and touch her pale skin, caress it . . . her lips, her arms, her-

_Stop it! Stop tormenting yourself! You hate her - the dreams only remind you of what she did . . . _

He was right – he did hate her. He hated her with every fibre of his being.

But in the dream she had said that she loved him . . . didn't that mean _something?_

_No. She doesn't love you . . . just as you don't love her. _

In the dream she had said his name – his _real _name – it had sounded so strange . . . so _right . . . _

_She doesn't know your name. She didn't even think to ask, remember that . . ._

He picked up a discarded candlestick and flung it at the pile of paintings that lay in an alcove.

Why couldn't he just _forget?_

* * *

_Please read and review! Thankyou xxxx_


	3. Past The Point Of No Return

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own charatcers and story lines

Note: Thanks for all reviews -I really appreciate them! Enjoy : )

3. Past the Point of No Return . . .

"_Wildly my mind beats against you . . . but the soul obeys . . . "_

* * *

Raoul stood at the railing, staring out over the grey sea, wondering what on Earth possessed him to do what he was doing. The winds blew furiously around him, and the waves seemed angry as they tour at the boat. He knew they were perfectly safe – the boat to France was large enough to sustain the mild beating it received from the sea, but the sea seemed to reflect his mood.

Somehow he had been persuaded to take Christine to Paris with him.

He had only returned to London three days earlier and he was already returning to where he had left. But he knew that he had to. His father had died the week before, and Raoul knew that he couldn't leave his mother alone for long . . . she had been distraught when he had left her. But he had had to leave – he had already been away from home for a month.

He hadn't really accepted that his father was dead. He had been expecting to fly into a fit of rage and grief . . . but he had just nodded silently when the doctor told him. Perhaps the rage was yet to come . . . perhaps it was all yet to sink in . . . he didn't know how to react to it. He had never lost someone that he loved so dearly.

He had returned to his house in London expecting to find his wife in bed, pale and weak, unable to get up or do anything. But she had been at the door to welcome him home . . . she had laughed and kissed him lightly on the cheek as if she had never been so terribly ill as she had been . . .

The next couple of days had gone by very quickly. Christine had insisted that she had recovered greatly since he had left and even Lucy had supported her story and even offered to join them in Paris to make sure that Christine remained well. Whenever he had questioned Martha about it she had tried to change the subject. Christine certainly did look much better . . . but he could tell that she had not fully recovered. She still seemed constantly tired and she would wake up pale, and he would think that everything else had merely been a dream, but then she would rise and act as if she never felt better.

Of course he was happy that she was recovering . . . but part of him knew that she was not being entirely truthful with him. And it worried him. Was she lying to him so that she might return to Paris? Why? She had insisted that she only wished to accompany him because he would need her following his father's death. She claimed that she also longed to see her old friend, Meg Giry, whom she hadn't seen since the premier of that monster's opera . . . but he didn't know what to think.

He was terrified that he would somehow lose here . . . that she'd been swallowed up by a darkness that neither of them could fight. He knew that the creature – her 'Angel' – had escaped that night, Meg Giry had told him that. The mob hadn't killed him as Raoul had hoped . . .

"_But he let her go . . . surely that means something?"_ Little Meg had written to him, shortly after they had fled the country.

But he knew that it meant nothing. He didn't know what that creature had been playing at that night, but all Raoul could think of was that he had killed all those people . . . and had almost taken Christine from him forever. He still felt the burning of the Punjab Lasso around his neck . . . and saw the monster clutching _his _Christine to his side as she fought him off. Those images plagued his mind every day . . . but the image that filled him with horror constantly was that of Christine kissing that inhumane beast.

He knew that she had only done it to save him . . . he would have been strangled to death otherwise . . . but it still filled him with such a loathing that it made him feel ill. The thought of those deformed lips on Christine's perfect ones filled him with such a rage that he thought it would utterly consume him. That monster did not deserve human love . . . and Raoul knew that if they ever crossed paths again, only Raoul would come out alive. He would kill him without a second thought. He would have done that night had he had a sword . . . but he had to escape with Christine as quickly as possible. He needed to get her away from the Opera Populaire . . . he needed to get her out of the country itself. He couldn't imagine what torments that _thing _had put her through . . .

Raoul pulled his coat around him tighter and turned away from the sea towards their private cabin, where Christine was taking a nap while Lucy kept an eye one here. He didn't know what awaited them in Paris, but all he knew was that he had to keep watch over Christine at all times . . . he wouldn't let anyone or any_thing _take her away from him.

* * *

_Christine wiped a tear from her frozen cheek as she sat on the snow-covered step leading up to the mausoleum. She felt the coldness bite at her and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shivering body. She knew that she was there for a reason but she couldn't remember it . . . all she knew was that she missed someone with such a longing that her heart physically hurt . . . _

_She stared around at the vast cemetery that she sat in. The faces of the stone angels gave no comfort to her – they were cold and unyielding, staring down at her with no love in their eyes. _

_In the corner of her eye she caught sight of a small, but warm light appearing in the closed mausoleum above her. She turned her head towards it and slowly stood, mesmerized by the orange glow. What was it that had lit this fire? Had it been one of the angels? But they had seemed so cold before . . . their had been no warmth in their gaze . . . _

_Suddenly she smiled to herself and mounted the first step. She knew who it was . . . it was the person that she was here to find . . . the person that she had missed so much that she thought that she would burst with the pain . . . _

_She saw the figure appear out of the darkness of the tomb, holding a hand out towards her . . . beckoning her to him. Some part of her of her was telling her that it was wrong, that she should be running instead of going towards him . . ._

"_Wildly my mind beats against you . . . yet the soul obeys . . . _

_Angel of Music, I denied you . . . turning from true beauty . . . "_

_A soft voice from within the tomb seemed to answer her as she laid her bare hands against the cold railings that stood before her . . . _

"_Christine . . . Christine . . . "_

_She was there, there was no need to call her anymore . . . she had answered. _

"_Christine . . . "_

_Why do you call my name when I am here? Why do you not open these gates so that I might reach you? She thought wildly, reaching a hand through, trying desperately to reach his . . ._

"_Christine . . . Christine . . ."_

"Come _to me strange angel!" She screamed, rattling the iron bars. _

"_Christ-"_

"-ine! Christine, please wake up!"

Christine's eyes flew open as she sat up in bed and tried to struggle free of the arms that were locked around her. She beat her clenched fists weakly against the chest of the person who held her, not even bothering to see who it was.

"Christine, please! Please calm down . . . it was only a dream . . . just a bad dream!" Raoul shouted, holding her back from him by the shoulders so that he might look at her properly.

She stopped fighting and looked into her husband's face, only realising who it was for the first time. What had happened . . . she had been in the cemetery only moments before . . . and she hadn't been reaching for Raoul's arms . . . how had she ended up in his embrace?

Breathing deeply she looked around. She was in a small, but comfortable looking room and the sound of the wind seemed to be everywhere. Lucy stood in the corner of the room with both fear and worry in her eyes, wringing her hands together in a gesture of desperation.

Christine felt warmth prickle in her eyes. She was on the boat to France . . . not in the cemetery. She was with Raoul . . . not with _him_. But the dream had been so terribly real . . . she could still almost feel the bitter cold against her skin, even though the room that she was in was warm.

She looked into Raoul's face, etched with concern.

"What happened . . . how did you know to wake me?" She whispered.

Raoul sighed and turned to Lucy who still stood shaking in the corner and then turned back to Christine.

"Lucy called me in. I had been outside on the deck and she came out to tell me that you were . . . well . . . " he looked away, uncomfortably, as if he was embarrassed.

Christine firmly grabbed his shoulder and made him turn back towards her.

"_What?_ What was I doing, Raoul?"

She could see that even though he was worried for her, he was angry too. His shoulders were tense and his face was hard. He took a deep breath and stood up. "You were _singing _in your sleep, Christine."

She stared at him in disbelief, who on Earth _sang _in their sleep? "_Singing?_ But Raoul . . . I haven't sung since-"

She stopped herself from continuing in front of Lucy. The girl didn't know of Christine's past in the Opera Populaire and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

"I _know_, Christine, but you were. You were singing as if you were awake. I couldn't believe it when I came in . . . but you were. And neither of us could wake you . . . we kept calling and calling your name . . . "

_Why do you call my name when I am here? _It hadn't been who she had thought it had been.

" . . . and then your singing turned to screaming . . . and then we finally managed to wake you . . . "

He was looking at her, trying to analyse her expression, but she was looking away from him, deep in confused thought.

"You sounded so desperate, Christine . . . and do you know who you were calling for?" He whispered, his voice drenched with bitterness.

_Oh God, _Christine thought, _he knows as well as I do who it was I was calling out for . . . _

When she didn't answer, he continued. "You were calling out for you _Angel of Music_ . . ."

She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself down. What could she do? Should she tell him that she hated having these dreams - that they dug up memories that she wanted nothing more than to bury for good? Should she tell him that the dreams plagued her night and day . . . that she was going to Paris to find a way to _stop _them?

No, of course she couldn't. He'd never accept it.

She opened her eyes and tried to mask any sign of regret on her face. She shook her head and placed her hand to her forehead in a gesture of clear desperation and confusion.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Raoul . . . I can't even remember what I was dreaming about . . . it's all just blank . . ." she lied, praying that Raoul couldn't tell.

He stared down at her. She could see hurt flash in his eyes . . . he knew that she was lying. She bowed her head and took a deep breath.

"I _can't_ remember Raoul . . . it's all so confusing . . ." she continued, trying to suppress the tears that welled in her eyes. "_Don't_ look at me that way, Raoul . . . you look at me as if you don't know me."

He stood right beside her now, leaning over her ominously. She looked down, not daring to keep his gaze.

"I _don't_ know you at the moment, Christine . . ." he whispered.

A sob rose in her throat at this remark. She had _never_ wanted this . . . she didn't want to hurt him . . . but she had to stop these dreams . . . she _had_ to.

When she didn't answer he turned away and walked swiftly towards the door. Christine's body shook as the tears began to fall freely down her cheeks. Just as he reached the door he turned to face her, his face and voice emotionless.

"When we reach France I am going to send you and Lucy on the next hip back to England . . . you are obviously not ready for this journey."

Christine leapt out off the bed and made towards her husband, almost stumbling in her hurry. He tried to leave but she grasped his arm firmly and made him look at her.

She must have looked a state. Tears still flowed from her tired eyes and she could tell that her hair was in no way tidy, but she didn't care – she had to make him understand.

"No, Raoul, _no_ . . . you are not going to send me back. Not now, not after we are so close . . . I-"

"So close to _what_, Christine? Tell me that! You seem to be very anxious to reach Paris . . . but _why?_" He replied, shouting this time. Now he was the one gripping Christine by the arms.

She looked up at him in despair. Should she continue to lie to him? She wasn't completely lying . . . perhaps it was time to end the deceit.

No, she thought, he'd send me home straight away. I can't let that happen.

She shook her head and pulled herself away from him. She slowly went to go and sit back down on the small bed.

"I want to be there for you, Raoul . . . you shouldn't be alone." She hated herself . . . but what she was saying _was_ true – that must make up for the lies, surely?

He just stared at her, no expression on his face revealing what he was thinking.

"That may be so, Christine, but whatever else you have planned - I will _not_ let it happen. I don't know what's going on but once we are in Paris you will have no chance to go and _visit_ anyone . . . I will _not_ risk losing you again."

"I don't know what you are talking about, Raoul! I-"

"I will not let you go and see _him! _Not after all we've been through!" He was next to her again when he said this, shouting down at her as she cowered beneath him.

She just stared up at him, tears streaming down her face. All this time Lucy had been standing in the corner, but now she was making towards the couple, obviously scared that Christine was in danger.

"Sir, please! She is not up to this-"

"_Thank you_, Lucy, but I am done here . . . I will leave my _wife_ to her rest."

And with that he turned round and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Raoul! Raoul, please . . . you must understand . . ." Christine sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

Part of her thought she should go straight back to London and forget everything . . . this was all too hard. But she knew she could never forget . . . she had to go on . . .

"_Wildly my mind beats against you . . . but the soul obeys . . . "_

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_Please read and review:D_


	4. Can I Ever Escape From That Face?

Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from my own characters.

Note: Sorry it took so long – I have exams coming up and a_ lot _of course work on the go. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed – it is all really appreciated and please read and review this chapter!

_

* * *

4. Can I ever escape from that face? _

_"This constant longing for your touch,_

_This bitter ocean of hatred and pain,_

_This loneliness I need to be who I am . . . "_

_

* * *

He stood on the bridge, seeing no one but the beautiful young woman in front of him as he held her close to his body. He could almost feel her heart beating next to his – they were beating to the same rhythm . . . they almost seemed to be one being instead of two. She was utterly his . . . no one would take her away from him . . . they would be together throughout the years . . . he knew that's how it was meant to be. _

_He stood slightly back from her, took her small, delicate hands in his and he held them to his chest so that she could feel his heart beating wildly in his breast. She stared up at him. Her eyes were large and doe-like, so full of kindness and love that he almost didn't dare to believe what he was seeing. He took a deep breath to steady himself and he began to sing to her . . . it was quiet and shy at first . . . he didn't feel that he had the right to say those words to her . . . _

_"Say you'll share with me one love . . . one life time . . . lead me, save me from my solitude . . . " _

_A small smile began to unfold upon her flawless face as he stepped towards her, singing to no one but her._

_" . . . Say you want me with you here . . . beside you . . ."_

_Tears began to form in his eyes as she slowly raised her hand to his masked face, running her fingers along his cheek, caressing his skin._

_"Any where you go let me go too . . . Christine . . . that's all I ask of-"_

_Before he could finish his plea, she had ripped the mask from his face, along with the wig that covered his balding head. It was so unexpected and sudden that he could do nothing but look at her in dismay, trying to decipher her reaction._

_He was utterly vulnerable to her now. He had nothing to hide behind . . . if she fled from him now he would know that he would be alone forever . . ._

_She simply stared back up at him. He couldn't see any horror in her eyes . . . in fact all he saw was, to his own horror, _amusement. _She was . . . she was _laughing _at him. She stepped back from him and just stood there _laughing_ at him. It was the cruelest sound that he had ever heard in all his years . . . and he had had to put up with constant jeering and screams at his visage in the past . . . but this was much worse than any of that._

_In despair he tried to cover his face with his hands, feeling the tears flowing down his deformed cheeks. He fell to his knees and tried to disappear from the world. He couldn't look at her . . . he couldn't listen to that awful sound any more . . ._

_But then the laughter stopped. _

_Slowly he looked up. She was still there, standing but a few feet from him as he crouched before her. He looked into her eyes that had been so drenched in love before. Now there was nothing that looked like love in them . . . they were filled with hate and a strange triumph at watching his pain. _

_"Christine, please . . ."_

_But she did not go to him. Instead she simply turned around and walked away from him . . . leaving him . . . _abandoning_ him . . . _

Erik groaned and rolled over as he was awoken by the sound of breaking glass. He immediately tried to put the images of the dream out of his mind, but it was impossible . . . they had been so terribly real this time . . . they were always so terribly real . . .

He slowly sat up, brushing away the shards of the bottle that lay newly broken beside him. He had fallen asleep on the floor again and now a dull, throbbing pain was resounding in his body. He looked around and slowly stood up, trying to ignore the screams of protest that rang out from each of his exhausted muscles - he wasn't getting any younger and this was particularly obvious in his tired limbs.

He pushed his hair back from his face, pulled on his black, velvet robe, which had been lying on his bed, and picked up the white mask from the small table by the curtained entrance. He didn't know why he still bothered with the mask. Whenever he left his home beneath the Opera Populaire he did so at night with a cloak concealing most of his disfigured face anyway . . . but he still wore it. It seemed part of him and he would never again see the one person who could bear to look at him without it. And perhaps even she had been concealing her disgust as she had ripped it from his face.

He slowly made his way out of his bedroom and across to where he had, in a rage, thrown all the portraits he had ever painted of Christine. Not a single one of them was intact. He picked up a small one in a gilded frame and examined the distorted face, anger welling up within him. He felt no remorse in having destroyed all of these images of the girl – he couldn't bear to look on that face again. Whenever he looked upon her eyes he noted how at first they seemed innocent and loving but, because of the memories that haunted his mind, he could soon see nothing but malice and a cold cruelty in them.

He had painted the one that he held in his hands when she had been quite young – perhaps twelve or thirteen. Even by that age she had developed such a merciless beauty that she seemed to be a grown woman within the fragile body of a child and he hated her for it.

He hated her for ever coming to his opera house and he hated himself for allowing himself to become entrapped by the child . . .

For the next eight years of his life whatever he had done was done for that child. He was always with her, nurturing her ever developing voice and watching her make the transition from a child to the woman that he had loved beyond anything in the world. He had loved her as a child but not in the way that he had grown to love her as she had matured and blossomed in the last few years that she had been at the opera house.

He would have given her anything – that was to the extent that he loved her . . . in fact, he had given her everything that he had possessed. The night that they performed his opera and she had torn off his mask. He had given her his very _soul _that night and it seemed to him that she had ripped it in two the moment she returned the ring that he had given her.

Or perhaps it had been when she had kissed him. Had that been the moment when his entire world had been shattered? It had been the very first time that he had felt the touch of a woman's lips against his and sometimes he could still taste her sweetness upon them . . . but the kiss had been tainted. It had not been out of love, but out of fear and pity.

'_Pitiful creature of darkness' _– that's what she had called him. He had _never_ wanted her pity . . . he had wanted her _love_, but she had been unable to give it to him. That kiss had been to save the Viscount's life, not his own.

He had sent her away after that. He still wasn't sure why. Perhaps the affection that she had shown him made him realise that he couldn't condemn her to a life with him . . . but perhaps the reasons had been more selfish. He could tell from that kiss that she didn't love him – not the way that he utterly had loved her – but perhaps he had been wrong at the time . . . maybe he had sent her away to see whether she _did _love him. If she left he would know the truth – she didn't and had never loved him.

And now he knew that truth. It haunted his every sleeping and waking moment. He had given her everything that night but for _nothing_ – he had left himself hollow and utterly empty. Alone . . . as he had always been.

_I doubt that she even thinks now of what she has done to me_, he thought bitterly, returning the picture to its place among the other ruined portraits, _why would she now that she is happily married with that boy?_

He sat down on the stone steps and placed his head in his hands, feeling the ever-present torment of the mask against his fingertips. He realised that he was starving- he hadn't eaten in days. He had drunk more than his fair share of spirits though – a habit that he had taken up shortly after that fateful night three years ago.

He stood up and pulled on his cloak and covered his face with his hood. He didn't even know if it was night, but if it was he would go out into Paris to retrieve what food he could get at that time. He was still a wealthy man – he had saved much of what he had been given by the various managers of the Opera Populaire all those years that he had lived beneath them, but he rarely bought anything but food and drink any more. He had no need to – all of his money had been spent for _her_ before. And she didn't need it now . . . not now that she had a rich Viscount for a husband.

* * *

Christine sat silently in the De Chagny's parlour, staring distractedly at the intricate marble fireplace, following its patterns with her tired eyes. She couldn't believe that she was in Paris, the city that she had spent most of her life in. As soon as she and her husband had arrived there the previous afternoon she knew that she was home again. The sights, the sounds – they were all so familiar to her. It was a great comfort to her troubled mind, but it also heightened the memories that already haunted her. 

Raoul's mother had greeted her warmly, but Christine could immediately tell how distraught the woman was, no matter how strong her exterior appeared. Christine had only met the woman and her late husband two times since her marriage to Raoul and she never felt completely comfortable with her. Christine knew that it was not accustomed for Viscounts to marry orphaned chorus girls, but she hoped that Raoul's mother was happy for them and did not disapprove too much of Raoul's choice in a wife. It was important to Raoul to please his parents - he was their only child after all.

But if the old woman had had any ill feelings towards her son's young wife then she had concealed them well when they met. She had kindly told Christine that she was to call her by her christian name, Marie and that she should feel completely at home while she was staying in her large Parisian home. But Christine immediately knew that Marie could tell that she was still unwell, even if Raoul had been somewhat fooled. But to Christine's relief, she made no mention of it to either of them.

Christine continued to sit silently for many minutes while Raoul dealt with various papers and dealings that his father had left behind. Christine didn't dare ask to go out into the city, especially after Raoul's anger that she had seen a few days ago. But it soon seemed that she would have no need to ask.

Marie walked quietly in, breaking Christine's current train of thought. The woman smiled at the girl and sighed.

"My son shall be busy at work for most of the day – there is no use for you sitting around doing nothing. You should take out my carriage and see some of the city, I can tell that you wish visit the places that were once so familiar to you."

Christine smiled but shook her head, despite how much it pained her. "It is a kind thought, Madame, but not today. Raoul wouldn't like me going out without him."

Marie laughed shortly and walked back towards the door and the hall, replying to Christine as she did so, "Nonsense, he cannot expect you to stay in all day. And I do not mean for you to go out alone of course – your young maid seems like a trustworthy companion. I will tell Raoul myself that you intend to go out."

Christine stood and followed the woman into the hall. "Thank you again, Madame, but truly I am fine here. You need not disturb your son, I-"

But Marie had already called her son out of the study and the three of them stood at the foot of the staircase. Christine smiled weakly at Raoul, who replied with a look of confusion and concern.

"What is it, mother?"

"Raoul, I have just been telling Christine that she should be out seeing the city today. The sun is shining and it is doing her no good to stay inside all day doing nothing," she replied, determination across her face.

"Mother, I would really rather that Christine waited until I could take her out. Perhaps in a couple of days we could, but-"

"Don't be silly, Raoul, you do not have to chaperone her every second of the day. She can take my carriage and will be accompanied by the young maid that you brought along."

"Mother, I-"

"Raoul, you are her husband, but not her dictator. Your father never told me what to do and that is why our marriage worked so well. She is a grown woman, boy, remember that," she scolded, speaking to him as if he was a child again.

Christine could see how Raoul hated his mother talking to him like she was and she felt awful for starting it all, but a small part of her was glad. She knew that he would never be able to say no to his mother.

Raoul turned to face Christine, a look or defeat on his face. "Where would you go?"

"To see Meg Giry, Raoul. I haven't seen her since we left," Christine replied truthfully. She hadn't seen her best friend in so long that it seemed like an age.

Raoul sighed and bowed his head. "Fine. Go, but you will be back in plenty of time for dinner, yes?"

"Of course, Raoul, I am just going to see Meg and her mother . . . that's all."

Raoul smiled grimly and placed a cold kiss upon Christine's cheek. "I will see you later."

She nodded as he turned and went back into the study, closing the door firmly behind him.

Christine and Marie stood there for a moment in silence. Christine knew what she was putting her husband through and she _was _sorry for it, but now that she was in Paris she knew that it couldn't be avoided.

She'd go and visit Meg today, but who knew whom she would find tomorrow?

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All reviews are really appreciated. Chapter 5 should be up within a few days – I am nearly finished on it. 


	5. My Power Over You Grows Stronger Yet

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own characters.

Notes: Wow! Two chapters in one day? Go me! Hehe. I have been on a writing spree. Hopefully chapter 6 will be up soon . . . please read and review!

_

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5. My power over you grows stronger yet . . ._

Christine smiled as the carriage pulled up to the attractive town house that she knew was the home of her dear friend, Meg Giry, and her mother. Some of her fondest memories were of them. Meg had befriended her as soon as she arrived at the opera house – orphaned and alone. They had soon become like sisters and Madame Giry, though strict, had always treated Christine like a daughter.

They had lost everything when the fire had raged through the opera house, but Christine and Raoul had soon made sure that they were living comfortably. Christine knew that Raoul would never forget how Madame Giry had helped him to find Christine that night. Christine often wondered what would have happened had Madame Giry not aided Raoul in that way . . . but those sorts of thoughts would drive her to insanity. There were far too many 'what if . . . 's in her life to bear contemplating.

Lucy helped Christine out of the carriage and she quickly made her way up the stone steps to the large painted door. How surprised Meg would be to see such a familiar face. They had corresponded through letters of course, but Meg had never been able to visit Christine in London. She was not one for sea travel. Christine remembered how Meg had been so terribly ill after a mere boat trip on the River Seine when they were children. Those times seemed like an eternity ago to Christine - a different world all together.

She nervously knocked on the door, hoping that her friend would be in. Lucy stood silently by her side, having said very little to Christine after the incident on the boat, crossing the English Channel. Christine didn't know what to say to the girl, but she was sure that some of her past would come out in her meeting with Meg.

She smiled as she heard footsteps moving towards the door and held her breath as it opened. A young maid with vivid red hair and a kind smile greeted her.

"May I help you, Madame?" She asked, a feather duster in her hand.

"Yes, I am here to see-"

"_Christine?_" Meg's astonishment interrupted Christine before she could finish.

"Yes, Meg," Christine replied, smiling more than she had in years. Meg had changed little over the past three years. She had been only fifteen when Christine had last seen her and now, at eighteen, she still seemed as childlike as she had been. Innocence and childlike-joy beamed off her and Christine was immensely comforted by it. It was so good to see her again.

She quickly pulled Meg into a tight embrace and they both laughed softly. Christine could feel the tears form in her eyes and she did nothing to fight them back. For once they were tears that she did not mind shedding.

"Oh, Christine, what are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming to Paris?" Meg laughed, pulling gently back to look at Christine.

Christine, with regret, noted how Meg studied Christine's appearance with concern. The long journey had not helped Christine in concealing her illness and now it seemed that it was obvious to everyone.

"It was a sudden decision for me to come and anyway I wanted to surprise you!" Christine replied, taking Meg's hands in her own.

"And that you certainly did! I can't believe it . . . I didn't think I'd see you again for so long! But come in, come in!" She pulled Christine in through the door and smiled warmly at Lucy who followed hesitantly. "Clémentine, make some sandwiches, please. They are probably starving."

The redheaded maid curtseyed and hurried off towards the back of the house. Meg, still holding Christine by the hand, brought her to the foot of the stairs where she called up to her mother.

"Mama! Mama, come quick, you shall never guess who has come!" She spoke with delight.

Christine saw the figure of Madame Giry appear on the landing. "What is it Meg? Who- Christine! What on Earth?"

Christine smiled at the obvious shock on the normally so controlled face of the woman who had been her ballet instructor for so many years.

"Good day, Madame, I hope you are keeping well."

Madame Giry quickly made her way down the stairs as Meg continued to make her delight obvious.

"She has come from London, Mama, isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes, quite wonderful, Meg," she replied, lightly embracing Christine, "I hope your visit will be a long one."

Christine smiled. "I doubt it will be short. Raoul has much to manage after his father's death and I will stay as long as he is here."

"Ah yes, I heard of Monsieur de Chagny's death. You will give our condolences to your husband?" She sighed.

"Of course, Madame, he will appreciate it very much."

Meg, who had been smiling non-stop since Christine's arrival, took her hand again and led her into a small, but warm and light parlour. Christine was so happy that they had a comfortable home in Paris. Meg had lived in the Opera Populaire since she was a baby and it had been hard for her to become accustomed to living anywhere else.

"Please sit Christine, and you also . . . " Meg finished, not knowing the name of Christine's companion.

"This is Lucy, she accompanied me from London so that I would have someone with me when Raoul was away with business," Christine told her, not revealing how Lucy would also be her nurse if it came to that.

"Welcome, Lucy." Meg smiled and signified for her to sit also.

"Thank you, Miss," Lucy replied quietly and sat in a chair near to where Christine was seated.

The maid, Clémentine, came in with a tray of small sandwiches, which she laid on the table between Meg and Christine, who both took one.

"Well, Christine, come on, tell us everything about London! I am so sorry that I could not make it to your wedding, but it was so soon after you left and you know how I hate boats," Meg spoke and ended laughing once more.

Christine smiled and began to tell them of her life in London. She told them of how different the city was to Paris, of how she had made many new friends, and of course about the birth of Matilde. She explained that she had left her in London with her nurse, because she was still too young to travel, but the truth was that Christine was still not well enough to care for her daughter. She told them everything . . . but she made no mention of the dreams and how her thoughts continually drifted back to the cellars beneath the opera house and of that night when the Girys had lost their home.

When Christine had no more to say Madame Giry smiled and slowly stood. "If you will excuse me, Christine, I must go now for a couple of hours – I still teach ballet every now and then. But you will visit us again soon, yes?"

"Of course," Christine smiled and watched the woman leave the room.

As soon as the sound of the front door closing was heard, Meg turned to her friend and took her hand from across the table.

"You are not well, Christine . . . since the moment you entered I could see it," she whispered hurriedly.

Christine just sighed and smiled weakly. There was no use lying to Meg, it didn't matter if she knew. In fact Christine almost wanted to tell her friend _everything_, but she didn't know what reaction it would receive.

Meg got up and went to kneel by Christine. "You are so pale and your eyes look so tired . . . are you still not recovered from Matilde's birth? You look as if you might collapse any moment."

"Tillie's birth did make me unwell, yes . . . but it's not just that, Meg," she whispered, deciding that she could do nothing now, but tell the whole truth.

"What is it, Christine?"

Instead of answering her, Christine turned to Lucy, who sat silently but looked concerned and confused. What other reason could there be for Christine's ill health?

"Lucy, you must not repeat anything you hear me say here to my husband. Please, it is more important than you can imagine . . . _please,_" she pleaded, praying that she could trust the girl.

Lucy stared at her in bewilderment. She hated lying to her master, but she also couldn't say no to Christine . . . she just looked so desperate . . .

"Yes . . . I mean, I won't tell Monsieur de Chagny . . . " she replied truthfully.

Christine smiled at her. "Thank you, Lucy, I don't know what Raoul would do if he knew the truth . . . "

Meg, exasperated, stood and went back to sit opposite Christine. "_Enough_ of this secrecy, Christine! What is going on?"

"I'm here to find him, Meg," Christine said abruptly, deciding not to delay it any longer.

Meg looked at her, obvious confusion and worry etched across her young face. "Find who, Christine?" She replied, her troubled voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering her question, Christine began to say all that had been burdening her for the past three years. "I am plagued by dreams, Meg . . . dreams of _him_ . . . and I am just so _confused_ . . . I can't live like this any longer."

Lucy, who had no idea who Christine was referring to, simply sat silently watching her. Meg on the other hand could not remain silent any longer.

"I am not surprised that you have dreams, Christine – you went through so much that night. But to go _find _him would surely make it worse-"

"I at least have to try! Can't you see what this is doing to me, Meg? You yourself said that you thought I might collapse any moment . . . all these dreams and doubts and memories are slowly eating away at me and I don't think that I can survive much longer with them . . ."

At this Meg said nothing, but instead just took Christine's hand and held in tightly. Christine knew that Meg was trying to understand . . . but how could she? She must have only thought of him as an insane murderer. And surely there was more to him that that?

"I don't know if any of this will make sense to you, Meg . . . I doubt I would understand it if I were in your position, but this is something I have to do. I don't know what has happened to him . . . I know that the mob didn't get him – you told me that much. But if he escaped that night, where has he gone? Part of me feels that he's still alive . . . I don't know how I know it, but I just _do_. Someone in Paris must have some news of him . . . even after all this time."

Meg just sighed and, letting go of Christine's hand, stood up. She began to pace slowly around the room, obviously unsure what to say to Christine.

"Christine, what . . . what do you think will happen if you do find him? What will you say to him to make it better?"

"I don't _know_, Meg, I don't think I'll even know if I ever find him. Perhaps my mind will be eased just to be certain that he _is _living . . . perhaps it won't. Maybe my doubts will finally disappear and I will be certain that I . . . " Christine took a deep breath, " . . . that I made the right decision."

Meg stared at her. "You doubt that choosing to go with Raoul was the right decision?"

Christine sighed and shook her head. "I don't know, Meg. To look back on that night with hindsight makes me wonder how much my fear blinded me. I _do _love Raoul, Meg, of course I do . . . but I . . ." Christine began to feel a sob emerge in her throat ". . . I left _him_ down there, Meg. I kissed him and then left him. You don't know how much I am haunted by the image of his face when I left him . . . I didn't think that I'd ever see that much anguish in a man's face."

"He threatened to kill Raoul, Christine, he had a noose around his neck . . . " at this Lucy looked startled and looked at Christine for an answer " . . . you had every reason to leave."

"I _know _that, Meg. I've dreamt about it countless of times and I don't know what would have happened if I had refused to comply with his demands. I don't know if he would have killed Raoul – he was certainly strong enough and . . . angry enough, but he also would have know that killing Raoul would have hurt me beyond belief . . . and by letting me go I have realised that he couldn't do that . . . " Christine whispered, finally understanding what she was saying. She had thought about it too many times to bear thinking about, but now she felt that she understood his motives that night. Of course she could never forget how he had killed all those people . . . but she didn't know how she would behave if she lived in a world utterly devoid of any compassion.

"You cannot imagine how painful it was for me to leave him there, in that cold and lonely place . . . you probably think me crazy, but I cannot go on without knowing what has become of him," she said, trying to justify her words and actions.

To Christine's surprise, an understanding smile appeared on Meg's face. Once again she knelt by Christine's chair and laid her hand on hers. "Part of me does understand, Christine. After I found out that he willingly let you go, my thoughts of him _did _change. I do not believe that Erik was utterly-"

"_Erik?_" Christine whispered, the name foreign upon her tongue.

Meg's eyes narrowed as she nodded slowly. "Yes . . . Erik. That is his name, surely you knew that? He tutored you for years, he-" But she stopped when she saw the tears falling freely down Christine's pale cheeks.

Christine just sat there, staring ahead of her at nothing. After a moment or two she flung her head down into her hands and began to openly sob. Meg could do nothing but place an arm around Christine's shoulders to try and comfort her, but it did no good. Lucy too got up and knelt by Christine's side, trying to understand what was going on.

Through the sobs, they could hear broken sentences coming from Christine.

"Oh God . . . my Angel had a name . . . he had a name and I never asked for it . . . forgive me, Angel . . . God, please forgive me . . . "

Lucy looked up at Meg. "Who is this Angel that she speaks of? I have heard mention of him before . . . what happened to her before she came to London?"

Meg shook her head and stroked Christine's hair tenderly. "She will tell you in due time. It is best that you hear it from no one's lips but her own."

"Yes . . ." Christine sat up, still crying, but having calmed down slightly, "I will tell you soon, Lucy. You know too much not to know the entire story . . ."

Lucy nodded and handed Christine a handkerchief from her pocket. Christine took it and, wiping her eyes, turned to face Meg. "How . . . how do you know his name?"

"Mother has always known it – he told her it when she first helped him escape from the circus . . . and she told me soon after 'Don Juan Triumphant'. She told me everything she knew of his past, just as she told Raoul."

Christine nodded. "Yes, Raoul told me what your mother told me . . . and presume it was the entire truth, but when it comes to . . . to _Erik, _Raoul does not like to speak about anything much . . . oh God, I cannot believe that I never asked his name . . . "

"Hush," Meg whispered, pushing a stray curl from Christine's face, "you thought of him as your Angel and we though of him as a ghost . . . you had no need to ask his name."

"But all those years, Meg . . . eight – almost nine years – and I never found out his name. Not even after he took me to his home beyond the lake . . . I never thought to ask . . . "

Meg let go of Christine's hand and stood up slowly and walked toward the door, speaking to Christine as she did. "I have something you might like to have, Christine . . . I shall just fetch it . . . I have had it all this time."

She came back after a couple of minutes, during which Christine and Lucy had sat in silence, neither looking at each other.

When Meg returned she held a parcel wrapped in black velvet. Christine simply stared at it. She had no idea what Meg could have to give her, but when she placed it on Christine's lap she began to unfold the velvet.

She felt it before she saw it – cold and smooth . . . a thing she had touched before. She stared down at it, trying to stop the tears from reappearing in her already drenched eyes. She ran her fingers along the contours of the mask, remembering how it had felt upon his face.

Still with her hands upon it she raised her head to look at Meg. "How? . . . I don't understand . . . "

Meg looked down at it and sighed once more, "It was there when we arrived that night. He was gone, but this remained . . . I do not think it was his only one. There was so much down there that there could have well been others, but we had to leave before I had a chance to look. The fire was raging throughout the building and we only escaped just in time . . . the passage was blocked behind us."

"He lost his home then . . . he probably isn't even in Paris anymore . . . how can I-"

"He's still here, Christine," Meg interrupted, "he still lives beneath the opera house . . . he has all this time."

Christine didn't know how to react to this news . . . if he was so close it meant that she could see him so soon . . . but perhaps she had wanted the wait to prepare herself. Now she could find him within minutes.

"How do you know, Meg?" She whispered, not sure if she could take any more revelations that afternoon.

"I've seen him, Christine . . . quite a few times in fact . . . he still lives there."

"When did you see him? Did he see you? Did you speak to him? What was he-"

"No, Christine, I didn't speak to him and I'm sure he didn't see me," she replied, preventing Christine from continuing with her erratic questioning, "I often return to the Opera Populaire simply to sit outside it and remember what it was like before the chandelier fell. And one day, a couple of months after the fire, I stayed until after sunset. It was foolish to remain there after dark, but I was well concealed and I couldn't bring myself to leave. And then I . . . I saw him. I was certain it was him. I recognised him immediately – I could never forget the way he moved . . . so slow and fluid – almost inhuman. His hood concealed his face, but I swear that I caught a glimmer of white beneath it in the moonlight . . . it was him."

"But how is he living there still if the passage to the lake was blocked by the fire?" Christine couldn't quite believe what she was hearing . . . Meg had _seen _him.

"That is what I thought too, Christine, so I followed him . . . " she revealed, quietly and calmly. "It seemed to me that he was returning to the opera house, so I followed him to see where he went in. He went right round to the back and I didn't think there could be anyway for him to get in . . . but there was. There was a small side alley that I had no idea existed – I couldn't believe I'd lived there my whole live and never noticed it – and he went down it. I was following him from afar so he didn't see me, but once I'd gone down the alley he was gone. There was only one way he could have got into the opera house – there was a grate in the ground, leading down into the sewers or some sort of tunnel system . . . I believe that's how he gets in."

Christine, who had been listening intently, nodded slightly and stood up. "I am going to go now, Meg . . . I must get it over with."

Lucy stood up too and tried to reason with Christine. "Ma'am, please, are you sure this is a good idea? I know I don't know the full story, but it seems dangerous . . . "

"Lucy, I need to do this. And I have no fear for my safety . . . if I find what I am looking for I do not think I have anything to fear . . . " She replied, only partially believing her own words. Who knew how much he would have changed in all that time?

Meg took her by the arm and led her out into the hall. "If you are sure about this, Christine, I will tell you how to find the entrance, but beyond that I cannot aid you. It could be difficult to follow the tunnels beneath the opera house . . . they cannot be the ones you went by before. They are all blocked."

"Thank you, Meg," she replied, and turning to Lucy, continued, "you can come with me to the opera house, Lucy, but I will go in alone. I have a few hours until Raoul expects me home . . . I have plenty of time. But you _cannot _tell Raoul of this, Lucy, you saw what he was like on the boat . . . even mentioning Erik was enough to put him in that rage."

Lucy, against all her own judgment, nodded. She didn't know what Christine was going to do, but whatever it was she seemed determined to do it.

Christine thanked Meg again and said farewell, promising to return soon. Meg watched her go, her mind drenched with concern - not for Christine's safety, but what was to come out of Christine and Erik's meeting. Christine was delving into her past, but perhaps it should remain buried . . .

* * *

Please read and review . . . 


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